“I wish he didn’t feel bad,” said Jules, with a swift rush of pity.  “He has been so good to me ever since he sent Brossard away.  Sometimes I think that he must feel as much alone in the world as I do, because all his family are dead, too.  Before I broke my leg I was making him a little Christmas tree, so that he need not feel left out when we had the big one.  I was getting mistletoe for it when I fell.  I can’t finish it now, but there’s five pieces of candle on it, and I’ll get Clotilde to light them while the fete is going on, so that I’ll not miss the big tree so much.  Oh, nobody knows how much I want to go to that fete!  Sometimes it seems more than I can bear to have to stay away.”

“Where is your tree?” asked Joyce.  “May I see it?”

Jules pointed to the closet.  “It’s in there,” he said, proudly.  “I trimmed it with pieces that Marie swept up to burn.  Oh, shut the door!  Quick!” he cried, excitedly, as a step was heard in the hall.  “I don’t want anybody to see it before the time comes.”

The step was Henri’s.  He had come to say that Marie was waiting to take mademoiselle home.  Joyce was glad of the interruption.  She could not say anything in praise of the poor little tree, and she knew that Jules expected her to.  She felt relieved that Henri’s presence made it impossible for her to express any opinion.

She bade Jules good-by gaily, but went home with such a sober little face that Cousin Kate began to question her about her visit.  Madame, sitting by the window with her embroidery-frame, heard the account also.  Several times she looked significantly across at Cousin Kate, over the child’s head.

“Joyce,” said Cousin Kate, “you have had so little outdoor exercise since Jules’s accident that it would be a good thing for you to run around in the garden awhile before dark.”

Joyce had not seen madame’s glances, but she felt vaguely that Cousin Kate was making an excuse to get rid of her.  She was disappointed, for she thought that her account of monsieur’s queer actions and Jules’s little tree would have made a greater impression on her audience.  She went out obediently, walking up and down the paths with her hands in her jacket pockets, and her red tam-o’shanter pulled down over her eyes.  The big white cat followed her, ran on ahead, and then stopped, arching its back as if waiting for her to stroke it.  Taking no notice of it, Joyce turned aside to the pear-tree and climbed up among the highest branches.

The cat rubbed against the tree, mewing and purring by turns, then sprang up in the tree after her.  She took the warm, furry creature in her arms and began talking to it.

“Oh, Solomon,” she said, “what do you suppose is the matter over there?  My poor old lady must be monsieur’s sister, or she couldn’t have looked exactly like that picture, and he would not have acted so queerly.  What do you suppose it is that he can never forgive?  Why did he call me in there and then drive me out in such a crazy way, and tramp around the room, and put his head down on his arms as if he were crying?”